


Mud

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Dominance, Established Relationship, Hate Sex, M/M, Quidditch, Rough Sex, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus wrestles Oliver on the pitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mud

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imera/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Грязь (Mud)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10481490) by [rio_abajo_rio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rio_abajo_rio/pseuds/rio_abajo_rio)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Грязь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510614) by [Rassda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rassda/pseuds/Rassda)



> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

The rain is beating down on them, and Oliver Wood’s stupid fucking face is snarling up like a Veela caught in mid-transformation. Pretty one moment, ugly the next, Oliver rolls them over until he’s on top, and the mud slicks all across the back of Marcus’ uniform. A Quidditch pitch is meant for flying over, not walking on. In the rain and storm, it’s a giant bog, and that only makes the fight _better._

Marcus doesn’t care about dirt. He’s been fighting dirty his whole life, and Oliver looks a million times more debauched and ruined than Marcus ever will, coated in it and soaking. Oliver’s wet, red-and-yellow uniform clings to his frame, only slightly smaller than Marcus’. They’re both fit, both fighters. Marcus rolls them over again and grinds Oliver so hard into the dirt he thinks he might drown the other Keeper. But that wouldn’t be such a waste. Oliver’s in his way, and Marcus wants to win that damn Cup—their _last one_ —almost as much as he wants to shove his dick up Oliver’s tight ass.

Oliver never goes down without a fight, though. He yells a sort of battle cry as he tries to overturn them, but it doesn’t work, and Marcus dodges. He uses Oliver’s own momentum to turn the Gryffindor over and hold him down into the ground. Oliver’s cheek scrapes against the rocks between the grass, and the rain slicks all of his light hair against his forehead, turning it dark. He looks like a Ken doll that Marcus broke and tore apart, and that’s half the fun of it.

“Who won now?” Marcus hisses, right above Oliver’s ear, and Oliver actually turns more into the ground to get away from Marcus, pissed that he lost that round. Always a sore loser when he hits the bottom role, though he’s no brighter when he tops. This time, Marcus is stronger, and he bites Oliver’s ear, hard, and shoves Oliver’s pretty wrists down. He’s got the leg up, now. He’s holding all the right places, and Oliver’s fingers claw at the grass and the air to break free, but they can’t reach anything: they’re helpless.

Oliver’s helpless. He tries, so very valiantly, but as usual, Marcus is the victor. He isn’t afraid to hit Oliver below the belt, kick Oliver when he’s down, break every one of Oliver’s delicate ribs. Oliver fights too cleanly and sometimes tries to make them something they aren’t. The more Oliver fights and the more Oliver breaks, the harder Marcus gets.

His cloak sticks to his uniform, his uniform sticks to his skin. It’s that hot sort of rain that only happens on a fresh spring night in the middle of a storm. He bites at Oliver’s jaw and straddles Oliver’s waist, holding Oliver’s legs down with his own, so all Oliver can do is struggle pathetically and snap at him. Marcus grinds into his longtime rival/boyfriend with a raunchy, lecherous grin on his face, and his black bangs slicked down around his eyes. They’re dark with lust, he knows. Oliver’s eyes are just as dilated, just as fiery. Marcus bites at the side of Oliver’s face until Oliver tries to throw him off again, tries to regain the upper hand, tries to be the one riding Marcus instead, tossing his head around like a wild horse.

Marcus keeps a tight grip on his stallion. He gets to saddle up, tie up, challenge and win and own. Marcus stops Oliver by smashing their lips together, his own uneven teeth slamming into Oliver’s perfect ones. Oliver cries out in pain, and his open mouth lets Marcus slide his tongue inside, feel all around and _fuck_ Oliver’s mouth. Oliver must know by now that Marcus is too fast to bite; he slithers like a snake and he’ll be out in seconds. Then he’ll grind his hips particularly hard into Oliver’s crotch, and Oliver will betray a little moan, and this kiss will go on. Oliver’s an untamable beast—it’s no fun otherwise—and Marcus will always have him, one way or another.


End file.
